Behind the picture. - by Abisolina

Behind the picture is me—present, composed, and carefully put together. It is the version of myself the world is allowed to see, the one that fits neatly into expectations. The smile looks natural, almost effortless, but it is practiced. It has learned how to appear convincing, how to reassure others that I am fine, even when “fine” is the furthest thing from my truth.Behind the picture lives a depth of pain I do not know how to explain without unraveling. These are not wounds that bleed openly; they ache silently. They sit in my chest, heavy and familiar, like a weight I have grown used to carrying. I move through my days with this weight, answering questions, fulfilling responsibilities, showing strength—while something inside me is quietly begging to rest.Behind the picture are emotions I have buried so deeply that sometimes even I struggle to reach them. Sadness I learned to minimize. Anger I was never given permission to express. Disappointment I swallowed because the world expected me to endure, not to break. I learned early that survival often meant silence, so I became fluent in it.Behind the picture are tears that fall only in private, where no one can misinterpret them as weakness. There are nights when I sit with my thoughts, replaying moments that shaped me, moments that took something from me and never gave it back. Losses that were never acknowledged. Pain that never received comfort. Strength that was demanded when compassion would have been enough.Behind the picture is exhaustion that sleep cannot fix. It is the tiredness of always being “the strong one,” the dependable one, the one who must not fall apart. I carry other people’s expectations alongside my own brokenness, smiling through conversations while my mind quietly drifts to places I dare not share. The world sees consistency; it does not see the cost.Behind the picture is fear—the fear of being truly seen. Because being seen means being questioned, judged, or misunderstood. So I hide. I choose my words carefully. I reveal only what feels safe. I protect my pain like a fragile secret, not because I am ashamed of it, but because I have learned that not everyone handles truth with care.Behind the picture is a heart that still hopes, even when hope feels reckless. A heart that continues to love, to give, to show up—despite everything it has endured. This is the part of me the picture also fails to capture: the quiet courage it takes to keep going when no one knows how close I am to giving up.Behind the picture, I am not weak. I am layered. I am wounded, but still standing. I am hurting, yet functioning. The image you see is real—but it is incomplete. It does not tell you about the battles I fight in silence or the strength it takes to wake up every day and face the world with a calm face and a heavy heart.One day, I may allow the world to see beyond the picture. Until then, understand this: behind every smile I wear is a story I am not ready to tell. And behind the picture is a version of me carrying pain the world never asked about—but pain that is real, deep, and deserving of compassion.

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